


Hen Vaethor (Warrior Child)

by erobey



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erobey/pseuds/erobey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's pretend that Legolas shares his birthday with Bilbo, 2890! Let us further pretend that, after the Fell Winter of 2911, some folks left Eriador to see if living was any easier to the east, in Dale. And now let us imagine that five Rangers are leading such a group along the Forest Road in the early spring of 2912. Canon purists must forgive me, for I know Tolkien tells us the Dunedain spoke and understood Sindarin well; here they recognise only a word or two. Translation is left out till the end, to enhance the effect of the language barrier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Dae Erin Ithil [Shadow on the Moon]

### A Little Legolas Story

    **by erobey    Beta'd by Sarah AK - _italics=thoughts_**

## Part One: Dae Erin Ithil [Shadow on the Moon]

The camp was grim in the deep of the night and the fire had to struggle to perform its prescribed duties of supplying light and heat under the close roof of over arching branches. The dark seemed a thing alive, breathing upon them with its foul airs and tasting their scent to see if it might consume them, swallow them whole, never to be found or heard of ever after. Such was the fate of many who ventured into the unwholesome wooded wilderlands east of the Misty Mountains.

Crowding down upon the little clearing, invading the meagre space, ancient trees longer lived than the sum of years attained by all the travellers together hovered in seething silence as though to stifle both the wayfarers and their measly comfort of smoking oak. The trees had lowing voices, moaning as if it pained just to stand there in that unruly place, crammed so close together that no bracken or bramble could find root room in the loam or glean light from Anor beneath the dense cover of leaf and limb.

The night had its own tongue and contested with the creaking woods, speaking its harsh language through the subdued severity of hungry growls from beasts skulking through the country and the whispery crisp panic in scuttles and scurries from the small creatures meant as their food. Here and there, the dark allowed itself a look into the camp through intermittent sets of gleaming eyes that shifted from ground level to tree tops and seemed to be everywhere at once.

The human travellers shouldered together forlornly around the billowing anaemic flames, coughing when the acrid fumes twirled and danced about their heads, stealing away their lungs' needs and smiting eyes. The burning stingers prompted watery gleams of unnatural brightness to blur their sight. There were twelve on the journey all together: two men with wives alongside, one pair old and faded, the other vigorous and with a small girl-child as well, two brothers silent and dour, and five Rangers vigilant and armed as though to battle called.

"Da! The eyes are looking at me! Make them stop, Da, make them go away!" the child, no more than 4 or 5 years of age, whimpered and burrowed her face deeper into her mother's bosom.

Her father shushed her gently, flashing a nervous glance toward the Rangers who all scowled at the family. Such racket might well attract more dangerous eyes upon them; the girl must be silenced. The mother caught the warning and gently soothed her lass, rubbing the girl's back and cooing a lullaby that was heard no further than the stunted fire's fulgor. The little one gave way to her weary spirit and drifted into sleep under the comforting caress of her mother's hands and voice. The second woman looked on sympathetically.

Two of the Rangers rose, their motions smooth and sinuously synchronised like paired predators on the prowl, and stepped from the clearing into the tangible gloom. The brown of their rugged leather cloaks instantly vanished in the pitch and the fall of their feet formed no noise. It was as if they no longer existed.

The two brothers shared willied looks and sidled closer to the other Northmen, closing up the gap in their circle. One made a scraping sound in his throat as another gagging gust of gases engulfed him, and he squinched his eyes against the searing sensation upon his corneas. After a moment he regained his composure and wiped away the teary dew clinging to his lashes.

"How much longer do you think we will be on this blasted road?" he finally found enough air to ask, and cared not which of their guides chose to reply as long as one of them did. The Ranger next to him looked over speculatively, as if determining whether to bother giving a true answer or to lie as one would to a child.

"We are nearly half of the way through. The forest is over 16 leagues broad at its thinnest, but that is not the course of our pathway. Here the woods are more than 60 leagues across. The speed with which we go depends only on the stoutness of our hearts and our ability to ease the way for the youngster. Even so, we can hardly hope to go faster than a league every hour, and so at best we may reach the eastern edge in three days time, barring any complications," he sad quietly and saw that his calculations came as no surprise.

"I had thought as much, even perhaps that four days would be likely," the questioner sounded relieved that he had not underestimated the journey's demands and smiled. The group had ample supplies on two pack animals, was well armed, and to guide them they had five of the hardiest souls in all of Arda. Surely, if the worst they must endure were sore soles by day and apprehensive imaginings at night, they would reach Dale in good health.

The missing Rangers rematerialized as silently as they had vanished and the brothers hurriedly shoved over to make room by the rheumy firelight. The men seated themselves and leaned closer to the heat, blowing out cold misty breaths over the struggling flames.

"We are being watched, and I do not mean yon foxes and owls darting through the dark," one said in restrained tones that spoke of curiosity rather than concern. All eyes turned to heed him but he took his time with his reply, fumbling in his pack for a whetstone and his dirk. He set up a slow and ponderous scraping against the blade, no doubt already ground fine to hair-cleaving sharpness, as he thought how to answer them.

His fellow Rangers sat with tense attention to their comrade's face, for in such journeys of escort through the wilds to the settlements in the East, seldom would a warning be shared with their charges. What this could mean was unknown to them and any unidentified variable could sway their fortunes into shadow and dire demise.

It could not be Orcs; they would have observed the signs as well. The same could be said for any other predator of the forest, and yet none of them had noted an unseen prowler spying them out. The Forest Road was known to be safe as long as one stayed rigidly upon it, yet the night did bear a strain greater than its black breath usually instilled. They waited for his explanation, yet no words did he utter and finally one spoke.

"Out with it, Arathorn!"

He stopped his meticulous sharpening of the previously razor-edged steel and glanced up at his fellow with a dark sparkle lighting his vaguely menacing stare.

"Wood Elves."

A moment of silence ensued as the Rangers regarded Arathorn to see if he was serious, and then, when they were certain he was, erupted into a mirthful blend of guffaws, rude jokes, and outright laughter.

"Oh, Manwë spare us! We shall be enchanted!"

"Aye, turned into toads or trapped inside trees!"

"Mayhap it will not be so bad, Arathorn, perhaps a faery princess has come to claim you!"

But the mother gasped in alarm and tightened her grip around the slumbering girl. "Nay! Say it is a lie! Have brownies come for my wee one?" she wailed and rocked her daughter, distressed, as her husband tried to calm his lady-wife's fears.

The one with the tale to tell, Arathorn, let them all have their say, whether in joke or in earnest fright, for to him they were all of the same source. Ignorance and superstition clouded rational judgement of their situation and allowed erroneous assumptions to be concluded. All his brethren Rangers sensed the presence, as did he, of this he had no doubt. They simply chose to laugh it off rather than seek out the true cause of the observation. He felt for the woman, though, for her fears were genuine even if they were misplaced, and he decided to speak his mind.

"Heed your good husband, Lady! There is no harm to be found for your little one from brownies. Such are not here, if ever they existed at all! We Rangers will guard you from harm due to true threat, in any case," he spoke with calm compassion and offered a grim smile that he imagined to be reassuring.

One of the brothers frowned and got up, pacing just to the edge of the firelight to peer blindly into the velvety darkness, so thick it might be a coat of panther's fur. "What is out there, then? If it is harmless, why mention it at all?" he demanded and turned back to the Rangers, looking them each one in the eyes to see what thoughts they might betray. They were utterly inscrutable, however, and he turned lastly to the one called Arathorn. "Will you speak, sir, or must we hearken to our imaginings as your fellows suggest?"

Arathorn regarded him carefully, again ceasing his attention to the dagger, and worried if he had been unwise to speak at all. There was something about this man he just did not like, right on the face of it. Always tallying things up, he was, and accounting the value of time spent against money yet to be earned. The Ranger feared, however, that the voyeur would be revealed and there would be a price to pay for it in blood if he did not properly prepare the band of travellers first. Arathorn sighed and carefully returned his belongings to their proper places in the pack.

"Alright then, it is Wood Elves. Or at least one Wood Elf for certain," he said and calmly waited for the hoots and incredulous oaths to subside again before continuing. "We need fear nothing as long as we behave in a respectful manner, for these are not our lands. This one has no intent to harm any of us or would have done so before now. I judge the Elf has been near our camp for several hours, just watching. Mayhap this a scout, or some sort of border guard."

"Oh please do not start with this again, Arathorn! How is it that you are the only one who ever sees these beings? I have accompanied you on five such crossings and never beheld other than ordinary woodland beasts!" one of his companions said with obvious irritation.

"And you are scaring the woman! What is wrong with you, man?" spoke another.

"Sir, is what you say the truth? Please, do not tease us with such stories, for I have my wife and child to consider!" the gentle husband said with distress as his woman softly cried.

"Peace, sir! All of you be still and cease this useless drabbling!" the calculating man almost shouted. Everyone looked at him in surprise and he glanced away and then at his hands in embarrassment for revealing his own anxiety over the topic.

"Yes, we should all be calm and keep our voices mild and free of such angry tones!" Arathorn cautioned, his own tone low and soothing. His eyes flitted briefly out into the darkness, up high toward the branches, and then rested again upon the blaze. "We are in no danger of any kind, for the Wood Elves are a shy folk and do not make efforts to engage with humans who travel their road. Yes, it is their road," he said as he noted the surprise on the elderly man's features.

"But, I though the men of Dale built this pathway!" he said.

"Nay, it was here long before any humans ever walked this land. Even the dwarves do not know how long the way has been maintained, or who first broke the trail, though it is they who made this highway as it is now: broad, smooth, and straight fit for the travel of Men and dwarves. For Elves of the wood have little need for foot-roads when the trees beckon and shield them. Some claim it has been a byway since before the time of Anor and Ithil, when the First Born marched West at the call of Orom‘," Arathorn continued.

His comrade to the left made a brusque snort through his nose and sent him a sideways scowl. "You cannot actually believe all that rubbish about First Age and Second, and a time with only eternal night and stars for light," he growled.

"Why not, Alberic?" Arathorn shrugged as he spoke. "You have been to Rivendell. Your very name calls upon the fair folk! Can you tell our company there are no Elves?" Arathorn demanded.

"That is different!" Alberic huffed defensively and drew himself up. "Everyone knows Elrond's people are the last of the wise among us! Wood Elves were hunted to extinction by Orcs long ago, or turned into Orcs themselves by the Evil One."

"You are wrong," said Arathorn emphatically but softly. "Iomhar and I will take first watch tonight. Alberic and Baldwin second, and Esmond and I will keep the third. All should retire now, for we move on at dawn's light," he commanded.

He stood and moved to the far edge of the camp to stand below an ancient beech with a girth so great that the five Rangers all together could not surround it, even if all stretched their arms to their very limits. The rest of the humans, save Iomhar, began to settle down into bedrolls and blankets and soon were resting under the forest's protection.

Slowly the hours passed as Ithil traversed his lonely path across the heavens, and all of the travellers save the watch slept soundly. It was then that Arathorn moved cautiously a little back from the great tree and motioned for Iomhar to approach. When the other Ranger reached him Arathorn pointed up into the branches.

"Do not make any unexpected movements, my friend, and you will see something rare indeed!" the man excitedly whispered, and his companion strained to see through the dark cover of the foliage, yet nothing seemed unusual at all. He looked at Arathorn with dismay.

"Now you are playing me to be a fool, old friend, and I am not so gullible as that! Wood Elves, indeed!" he scoffed and stalked back over to resume his post, muttering nondescript complaints against his comrade's strange sense of humour.

But Arathorn was patient, and stood silent and still, gazing up at the eerie gleam of non-human eyes belonging to the figure he could barely discern cosily tucked among the great tree's majestic limbs. He knew his sight was more acute than his fellow's and did not doubt what his eyes beheld.

Oh, the night was sluggish in its animation, seeming more frozen and timeless than eager to finish its labours and rest in the rising of Anor! Two hours more passed, and the first watch ended, but when Iomhar was replaced by Alberic, Arathorn did not rouse Esmond but stood his shift at guard as well.

The man had about lost hope that the creature would ever move when the eyes quite suddenly blinked, and a very soft yet sharp sound issued from their owner. The eyes disappeared then, and Arathorn despaired, thinking the being had fled at last, disturbed by something the man could not hear or see. He sighed his disappointment and turned away from the tree to join Alberic, and there at his feet, crouched upon the forest floor was the Elf.

"Saes, nen? Saes!" the creature spoke in a voice so quiet and words so brief that Arathorn was left uncertain if he had actually heard the sounds at all. He stared in wonder at the small immortal, overawed to be so close to one of the mysterious woodland folk he had barely glimpsed from the distance before, frozen lest he frighten the forest sprite back into the trees.

Beautiful, ethereal, graceful, noble: none of the words he could call to mind did justice to the magnificent rarity of the small, slender figure kneeling on its haunches, curled tight as though prepared to spring away at any moment. The delicate refinement of the facial features was breathtaking and the translucent sk  
in seemed to have captured the subdued light of the stars. The human actually sighed in joyous abandon as he contemplated the depths of the huge blue eyes gazing into his with such incredible intensity.

_Girl?_  A flowing crown of spun gold tresses framed the small face and from beneath this fall of earth-bound sunlight the pale pink tips of pointed ears peaked out.

_Or boy?_  he absently wondered. The straight firm set of the ruby red lips did not change the soft suppleness of the clear-skinned cheek or harden the demeanour of the small Elf's pristine countenance.

_Small._  The concept registered through his brain in a blinding flash of recognition and Arathorn almost fell over.

_This is not just any Wood Elf; it is silvan elfling!_  The man was shocked to say the least, and instantly knew something must be wrong, for never, even in Imladris, had he ever been allowed near an Elf child. This one should not be out among the trees alone in the night, when Orcs and other dangerous and loathsome monsters lurked.

The Elf bowed its head then, and the thick mane of flaxen locks cascaded forward, obscuring the features. The next sound could not be mistaken, though the child tried hard to suppress it, and Arathorn was startled and alarmed, for it was a strident hiss of acute pain.

"Ah! You are hurt?" he cried and stooped down, edging closer yet still cautious so as not to startle the wood sprite. Arathorn at last reached out and tentatively tapped the being's shoulder. The Elf's head snapped up and jolted back, fear and pain coursing through the eyes. "Nay! Do not run, I mean no harm." He could see confusion suffuse the azure gleam and sudden inspiration broke upon him. "Dartho! Mellon, mellon," he said, pointing to himself, hoping his limited vocabulary of elvish would win the child's trust. "Let me help! You need help, that is why you are here," Arathorn spoke in very calm and coaxing tones, as if he were trying to tame a wild thing.

"Saes! Nen?" the Elf relaxed slightly as he repeated this plea, distress clear in the strained and hoarse voice, and Arathorn, now roused from his amazement, recognised the simple request for water. The man nodded and smiled and pointed towards the camp to show that he would go and get it and rose very slowly, backing away as he did so. The Elf's eyes never left his face as he retreated to the fireside and retrieved the water skin. Once back in arm's reach, the man crouched down again and held it out.

The child fairly grabbed it, and Arathorn saw that the hands were all grimed and bloody. In the dim light he could not see where the creature was hurt, but was alarmed at the amount of water the Elf was guzzling, as though not a drop had been swallowed for days and days.

"Hannad nîn," said the Elf and held out the water bag with one hand while the other slipped back around his middle, disappearing behind the drawn up knees. Another groan and a shudder accompanied this action.

"Alright, now, alright," the man soothed as he took the container, wanting to do something to reassure the immortal so that he could examine the wound and determine its severity. "I mean not to hurt you, just let me have a look now, alright?" He edged closer and the child watched him guardedly but did not shy away.

"Arathorn? What are you doing over there on the ground?" the words were spoken in subdued tones so as not to wake the others, but as soon as Alberic began to approach the elfling panicked.

With a strangled gasp the child vaulted upright and raced for the giant tree. Making a tremendous leap, hands reached out for the lowest branches, but the injury betrayed the body and robbed the little one of the necessary force to clear the distance. An agonised cry escaped the Elf upon landing back against the trunk, slowly crumpling down into a heap of limbs askew and hair awry. The immortal made no move to get up, and Arathorn hurried over.

By the time Alberic reached him, Arathorn had scooped up the inert and senseless form and was striding back towards the fire. Had the situation not been so grave, the Ranger would have thoroughly enjoyed the stunned stupefaction on his friend's face when glimpsing the fragile burden he bore in his arms.

"I do not believe it!" Alberic whispered, and just stared with mouth agape as Arathorn carefully laid the Elf upon his own bedding.

"Alberic, do not just stand there gawking, help me!" Arathorn snapped impatiently. "Get me the healing kit; hurry up!"

As Alberic hastened to retrieve these supplies, Arathorn cautiously examined the motionless body. He could see now that the whole left side of the creature's tunic was blood-soaked, and the essential fluid still seeped through the great tears in the clothing, where the source of the flow was exposed to be three grisly slashes ripped through the slender side and ribs.

The Ranger sought for clasps or openings upon the sleeveless garment, but found none and realised it was simply made to draw on or off over the head. He had no choice but to take his dagger and cut it away. The tearing and blood rendered it unmendable anyway, he reasoned. The undershirt was of softest wool, unlike any lamb's coat the man had ever felt, and he wondered if the cloth had instead been woven from elven hair. This, too, was unable to be opened, and he sliced through it down the front from neck to hem and gingerly peeled it away.

The poor child stirred and moaned, for the cloth had stuck to the wounds and pulled the abused flesh as Arathorn removed it.

Alberic arrived back with the bandaging and the pack of herbs supplied to them by the Elves of Imladris. He was all business now, reserving his marvelling for later, when the fabled being was awake and well. Into a bowl he crumbled some of the herbs and poured over them steaming water left from the night meal's tea. Once this had steeped a few minutes, he added clear cold water from their water skins to make the temperature bearable for cleansing the ugly wounds. He handed the bowl and a cloth to Arathorn and stooped beside him, ready to assist should the child wake and try to move.

Arathorn tried to be gentle but knew he needed to be thorough. The gashes looked like claw marks, and now that his examination of the upper body was completed he noticed a deep black bruise on the child's left forearm just below the elbow. The skin was swollen and bore jagged teeth bites that pierced to the bone, and the man cautiously palpated the site to learn if the arm was broken. The bone was solid and unfractured, he was glad to learn. There was a long rend in the right leggings below the knee and an equally lengthy slash into the calf, also freely bleeding again after the disastrous attempt to regain the protection of the heights. The human had seen wounds like these before; the child was fortunate to be living after such an attack, for it could only be Orcs.

The little one whimpered in agony and thrashed a bit, but soon slipped further into unconsciousness. Arathorn and Alberic exchanged relieved glances, for the child was suffering enough and they would spare him any more distress if they could.

Him, indeed, for clearly now they could tell it was a male child. The soft warm woollen leggings clung to the child's lower body and outlined the masculine genitals, undeveloped yet in prepubescence, but all the necessary equipment obviously in place.

"He looks to have seen no more than ten summers, were he human," said Alberic. "Yet who knows how many that is in elf-kind years."

"You are right. Mayhap he has lived twenty or so seasons," Arathorn agreed.

"What is he doing out and about in this awful place alone?" Alberic fussed, feeling protective of the helpless child and angry at such neglect.

"I do not know; something has happened to his family, both of us can guess what from his condition, and he alone escaped," said Arathorn. "It happened not overly long ago, either; three days maybe judging by the progress of healing. We had best be on alert from here on out. The foul beasts will be following his scent, stronger from the addition of his blood."

He had finished cleaning away the bloody gore and was relieved to see that the wounds had not punctured anything major inside the elfling's body. He took the silk-threaded needle Alberic held out and began stitching the nasty gouges shut. This done, he bound up the wounds in clean cotton and linen, and then treated the injured limbs. He splinted the arm, just in case a minute fracture had evaded his perception, carefully cushioning the contused area first, and wrapped the whole in firm but non-restrictive bindings. He cleaned and stitched the leg, bandaging that as well.

That was all he knew to do, and so he retrieved a blanket and covered the Elf over, first removing the soft leather shoes. One slender white foot crossed over the other protectively at this sudden exposure and the long toes all curled down tight before the comforting warmth of the coverlet hid them.

Unsatisfied with his comrade's efforts, Alberic knelt over the child and carefully shifted and tucked the thick blanket all around the fragile looking form, hesitantly patting the shimmering hair when he was finally satisfied no draft would chill the suffering Elf.

The two men sat back and stared at the unconscious immortal, and then at each other, in disbelief.

"If I had not just touched that creature with my own hands, I would swear all this to be some strange dream!" said Alberic as he shook his head.

"Oh, now you have no scoffing words to say?" Arathorn laughed. He took out his whetstone again and settled into a comfortable position by the fire, stirring up the embers a little to encourage more warmth from the straggly blaze, and started the soft, steady scraping of blade over rock.

Alberic just watched the Elf. When their shift ended, neither man woke their replacements, for they could not bear to move from the immortal child's side, fearful he would wake and become alarmed in his strange surroundings.

continued


	2. Part Two: Aur Breitha [Morning has Broken]

### A Little Legolas Story

    **by erobey    Beta'd by Sarah AK - _italics=thoughts_**

# Part Two: Aur Breitha [Morning has Broken]

  
If night in the forest was a living entity of fearsome mien and manner, then dawn was its counterpart in light and beauty. The voice of the woods by day was gay and hopeful, carried from branch to branch on birds' wings and sighing winds through the many-fingered, sociable trees. Dazzling was the only way to describe the sheen of the sun that penetrated the dense umbrella of leafy limbs, sending shafts of concentrated radiance all the way to the rich brown earth, charming from it the luxuriant aroma of the life-sustaining loam. Exotic avians, feathered in hues far richer than any rainbow's bands, decorated the stately greens and browns of trunk and stem like rare gem stones of precious worth, while the spicy scent of tropical flowers was enough to make the senses reel and thoughts go giddy.

It might have been his imagination, but Arathorn believed it was the new addition to his group that was responsible for the change in atmosphere. There was definitely a more joyous quality to his own mood than he had known for many a long year, and this he did not hesitate to ascribe to the unexpected presence of the youthful First Born in his camp. The whole of nature exuded exuberance, overcome in delighted contemplation of the Elf child. The animated woods seemed to be singing a lively invitation to wake, encouraging the young one to rouse and share the glorious morn. The man scarcely dared take his eyes from the fair face for fear of missing the moment when those enormous blue orbs opened and greeted the dawn.

His patience was put to the test in this, for all the humans woke and came to stare in confusion at the small bundle huddled into the thick woollen coverlet, no more than a mass of flaxen hair and a pixie face visible. Upon learning the species and condition of this visitor to their camp, all were amazed and disturbed. The adults' eyes betrayed the questions crowding their minds, but these remained unspoken in light of the vulnerable innocence surrounding their sleeping guest.

Yet the child did not stir. Alberic grew concerned and wanted to force the Elf to arise, but Arathorn would not allow it. In fact, he ordered all to be quiet in their activities and tend to their business without pestering the injured immortal. Still, they could not keep away from the ethereal creature and before long everyone returned to the ash-filled fire ring, gazing in awed silence at this myth come to life in their midst.

Gilraen, the girl-child, was the only one who could not be still, and she fairly danced around the camp, laughing out loud every now and then and clapping her fat little hands together in glee. She finally would have a playmate on the tedious and often frightening journey.

"Is it a girl?" she asked as soon as she saw the long gilded hair, and before her mother could stop her she twirled over and reached out to feel the silky strands.

"Nay, it is a boy. A boy Elf," said Alberic, shooing her back after carefully disengaging her chubby fist from the yellow mane.

Gilraen pouted; she did not think boys were any fun at all. Her cousin Albin was a boy, and he was always taking her toys and making her cry. Then she noticed the ears, and decided an elf must be more like a cat than a person. Cats were her most favourite of animals, and it did not matter if they were boys or girls, they all had soft fur and purred when she patted them. Thus she was happy again.

"What is his name?" she asked Alberic, and the man shrugged for an answer. "Why is he still asleep?" she queried again.

"He is hurt and needs to rest to get better," said Arathorn. "Do not pester him, now, for he must be very tired!"

"How did he get hurt? Did he fall down?" she demanded, skipping back to her mother's lap to settle for all of two seconds before dancing away again to resume peering down at the slumbering child.

"We do not know what happened, Gilraen. He was not able to tell us last night," Alberic replied, and tried but failed to stay her hand from patting the immortal's pink-blushed cheek.

"Soft!" she said delightedly and darted back toward her father amid the muted laughter and chuckles her antics induced. "When is he going to wake up?"

"When he is no longer tired, child! Now come with me, it will be fun to go and pick flowers for the little elf boy, yes?" said the old woman and held her hand out. Gilraen jumped up and down and giggled, nodding her agreement, and grabbed the granny's fingers.

"Yes! I want to make a flower crown and a daisy necklace! Mum, do you think the boy will like a crown or a necklace?" The girl and the old one ambled off, the grateful mother tailing behind, and the camp grew still again.

Except for Arathorn and Alberic, the men folk, once left on their own, suddenly felt a bit foolish to be gazing wordlessly at a sleeping child, Elf or not, and attempted to find important things to tend while they waited for the momentous awakening. There was only so much one could do in a small camp, however. Finally Esmond and Iomhar decided to go hunting, Baldwin and Gilraen's father left to take the burros to search for grass, and one of the dour brothers decided to go gather dry kindling while the sun was bright. That left the old man, the calculating brother, and the two Rangers to watch over the elf.

A peaceful calm extended over the camp, broken by the distant laughter of the little girl playing among the boles, the occasional twitter and call of the forest's bird-life, and the gentle sighing of the towering trees as Manwë's breath caressed their uplifted arms.

"How long will we delay here, Arathorn?" the unpleasant brother spoke at last, dispelling the mood of relaxed amiability.

His tone was one of aggravation and impatience that the Ranger disliked. This man so easily rubbed him the wrong way that he had to make a conscious effort not to send him a hard look and order him to be quiet. A calming breath helped steady him, and Arathorn met the man's eyes with his irritation well hidden.

"We cannot leave before the little one is able to travel, and I do not know when that will be," he said evenly. He suddenly realised he could not remember how the man was called, and began to mentally list given names that seemed possible in the hope of jostling his memory.

"I do not see why we are taking that thing with us!" the calculating man blurted out. "We have only enough water for ourselves on this journey; it is you that warned us against the enchantment upon the river here. Neither do we have extra supplies to feed it and for all we know its parents are searching for it right now. They will likely harm us if we are found with their spawn in our company!" he ranted.

"Dacre! It is an Elf, not an animal! Do not refer to him as a 'thing'!" this strident reprimand came from the old one, and Arathorn silently thanked him both for his scolding and for naming the odious brother.

"I do not care if it is an Elf! Orcs are nothing but Elves, Berkeley. Why are you so glad to have it among us? You should be worried for your goodwife's sake if not your own. We should just leave it here and be on our way!"

Alberic rose and stalked over to Dacre, anger plain in his dark brown eyes. He pointed his finger at the rude man and loomed over him with menace. "I do not want to ever hear such a horrible slur again! You are intolerably ignorant, and I will not suffer your prejudice. What Elf has ever done you harm for you to speak so against an innocent?"

Now Dacre stood up, countenance red and eyes all glittery and he loudly snuffed his breaths in and out. He was not about to allow some common hired guide to insult him, yet he was acutely aware of being unarmed and outnumbered. His eyes darted from face to face among the three men before he wheeled and strode out of the clearing.

Alberic and Arathorn exchanged exasperated looks. There was a Dacre in every trip, it seemed: an over confident and under educated man set on making a fortune and buying his way into the respect of his betters.

The old one, Berkeley, sighed and returned his eyes to the huddled heap under the blanket.

"I am sorry for his attitude," he said. "He is my sister's child, and I agreed to finance him in this venture. Now I am sure it was a mistake. I did not know he had become so bitter! His young wife was the victim of an Orc raid upon our village five years ago. Somehow, he has turned the tragedy of the First Born into his own personal affliction, as if the Elves caused that terrible fate to befall his beloved!"

The two Rangers nodded sympathetically; at least they could understand the man's fears and hatreds now. It would make him much easier to control should things get unpleasant. Alberic felt sorry for yelling at the man, pitying his loss and woe.

That moment the Elven child twitched under the blanket and cried out. The three humans instantly drew closer and Arathorn cautiously laid a hand upon the immortal's shoulder. The clear blue eyes opened and stared up at him in bewilderment and pain, and the youth rolled to his good side and curled up, trying to choke back another moan as he did.

"There now, young one, do not try to move about!" Arathorn said quietly.

"Aye, you are not in very good shape, boyo!" added Alberic. He just shrugged in response to the quizzical expression gracing his friend's face upon hearing this silly nickname.

The elf child gazed upon each of the kindly faces regarding him in turn and managed a weak smile of his own. In spite of their admonitions, he struggled to sit up and so Arathorn helped him. The child investigated his person, taking note of the clean bandages and warm blanket, and stared up at them then with genuine gratitude as he wrapped the blanket close around his shoulders, shivering a bit.

"Hannad nîn," he said softly with another smile. The men just stared at him, grinning happily to be under the scrutiny of so pure and gentle a soul. "Geril hannad nîn ar rîn an uir," the graciously spoken Sindarin syllables fell like a caress upon the mortals, though they understood not more than a word or two. 'My thanks' seemed to be the gist of it, and so they just nodded and smiled even wider.

The elf licked his dry lips and swallowed with some difficulty, and Alberic came out of his daze in a flash.

"Are you thirsty, lad?" he asked and the elf just stared, a questioning expression in his eyes, and Arathorn shoved his friend roughly but with high humour.

"He is a Wood Elf, not one of the Noldor! He does not speak our tongue, Alberic!" He laughed at his friend's crestfallen look.

"How are we to talk with him, then?" Alberic demanded.

"In this way," old Berkeley suddenly said as he rose and retrieved the water skin, holding it up as he walked back to the elf's bedside. "Water?" he asked, and the elf nodded emphatically and held out his hands. He drank deeply, as he had the night before, and again smiled and spoke his thanks when done. Berkeley tapped the centre of his own chest with his index finger. "Berkeley," he said, and lifted his brows in question as he pointed at the elf.

"Legolas," came the reply as the elf imitated Berkeley's gesture, tapping his breastbone and then pointing, brows up, at Arathorn. And thus the introductions were made. Alberic became quite enthusiastic and started naming and pointing at all sorts of things around the camp, repeating the elvish words as Legolas spoke them.

Then the elf took the initiative and reached out, tugging on Alberic's shirtsleeve and then the woollen coverlet. "Hammad nîn?" he said, and the man understood, nodding at first, then frowning and shaking his head.

"Sorry, Legolas, your shirt is all torn," he said. The elfling's brows crunched together in disappointment as he attempted to decipher these remarks.

Arathorn searched around and found the garments he had removed from the elf and held them out apologetically. Legolas looked dismayed as he took them and examined the ruined clothes.

"Man cerithon an hammad?" he sounded perplexed and worried, and it was not too difficult to figure out his concern. Arathorn went to his pack and pulled out a clean shirt, which he shook and handed over to the elf.

Legolas shrugged the blanket from his shoulders and slipped into the shirt, pulling the long sleeves back over his wrists and examining the buttons and their corresponding holes closely. He had not ever seen such before but it was not a difficult concept to understand, and his nimble fingers closed them all up. Then he looked down at the voluminous garment, many sizes too large for his small frame, and burst into merry and musical giggling. The joyousness of that sound was infectious and soon all three of the men were chuckling delightedly at the ridiculous mismatch.

The gentle laughter from the fair child caught the other humans' attention, a swirling hint of paradise teasing their hearts. It drifted in the breeze offering comfort and eliciting an instinctive response of hope, for if an immortal could yet laugh amid the cruelties of the world then life was not a futile venture. They were drawn to the sound, and soon all were once again seated in a semi-circle near the Wood Elf's bed, wide-eyed as only mortals can be in the glory of the Eldar.

Arathorn and Alberic puffed up proud as though they were some how responsible for this blessing upon their camp, and were about to begin sharing names when the little girl took matters in hand. Gilraen squirmed from her mother's hold and hopped over to the injured Elf, pulling from her hair a rather bedraggled and limp crown of purple Morning Glories. She set it upon their guest's head with the shy delight only a child can express, and sat back on her heels with a pleased smile.

Legolas grinned back and adjusted the crown with as much care as he would a circlet of mithril. He lifted his chin with all the formal regality he could muster in such a humble court wearing homespun clothes four times his size.

"Hannad nîn, gwend vain o dyr chae! Suilad uin Ernil-en-Taur!" Somehow, in spite of the rude accommodations and ridiculous attire, he managed to project a sense of elegant nobility and gracious refinement.

Gilraen giggled and clapped and Legolas' eyes danced appreciatively to see her happy glee.

"He is so pretty, Mum! Look, he likes the flowers!" she said. "What is your name? My name is Gilraen and that is Mum and Da," she rapidly presented her family, pointing at her parents in turn. The Elf child nodded and tapped himself again, giving his name; then touching her and saying hers.

"Legolas, what a beautiful sound that has!" said the aged crone and reached for her husband's hand to squeeze it, catching her breath as the Elf's eyes fell upon hers at the speaking of his name. "I am called Hanna," she whispered.

Legolas knew the woman's name was somewhere in the flow of syllables, but did not know which part, and let his gaze shift to Berkeley. He lifted his brows and pointed at the old woman, and Berkeley translated for him.

"Hanna, mae govannen," Legolas said and inclined his head in respect, for he could see that these two were different from the others. They reminded him of the wizard, Mithrandir, with their deep-lined skin and soft white hair, and he thought it best to treat them with the same courtesy and honour he had been taught to give the Istar.

Arathorn and Alberic told Legolas all the other's names and he smiled with equal friendliness to all, until Dacre's seething eyes met his and the Elf child's mild expression dissolved into a serious and searching demeanour. He was instantly on the alert and everyone noted it, turning almost as one to glare in disapprobation at the man. Dacre frowned even more sourly at this.

"When are we moving on, Arathorn? He seems well enough; we should leave him here and go," he demanded, for while the words phrased suggestions his tones snarled an order.

"I am not going to desert him. Legolas is wounded and cannot fend for himself; he has no weapons and is but a child! Surely you cannot be so cold as to suggest we abandon this innocent to another attack?" Arathorn spoke through ire-thinned lips as he struggled to maintain his calm.

"Attack? What attack?" Gilraen's father asked in fear and came forward to peer into the Ranger's stern features.

Arathorn mentally cursed; he had not said anything about the nature of the Elf's injuries and had not intended to tell his group that a band of Orcs was nearby. His plan had been to evade the issue, mentioning wargs and wolves and such as possible sources for the hurts.

"His injuries were caused by…" Alberic began.

"We should save this discussion for adult ears only!" cautioned Berkeley abruptly and cut him off. Arathorn acknowledged his timely interruption with a grateful nod. To Alberic he sent an exasperated scowl, and his friend shrugged, sheepish over his loose tongue. Yet it was Arathorn who had slipped first and so Alberic flashed back the same type of frustrated frown to his long-time friend.

"Berkeley is right; it not a subject for small ones. Let us set to breaking the camp, for we have been delayed many hours already," Arathorn said. "Alberic and I will see to the little Elf; you need not have any concerns about it, Dacre!"

"How can you say that? He has family somewhere and they will be searching for him. What will happen when they find that we have him?" Dacre fumed. His brother came forward and took him by the arm, tugging him back from the child.

"I would imagine they will thank us, brother! Come, help me with our things, let this trouble you no more," he urged kindly but firmly, and Dacre allowed his brother to overrule him.

Legolas observed this heated exchange fearfully, for it was obvious the one called Dacre was displeased with him for some reason. When Berkeley had halted the Ranger's words and Arathorn at once responded, this confirmed the immortal child's belief that the white haired ones were the leaders. Before the elder could move out of range, the Elf child called to him urgently.

"Berkeley! Boe ammen baded sí! Le tegitha men an ost nîn? Avradon. Men beriatha uin Yrch ennas!"

The old man peered into the youthful countenance and tried to divine the emotions fleeting through the indigo orbs, but failed. Berkeley gave an apologetic shake of his head and a shrug.

"I am sorry, young one, I do not understand." Berkeley patted his shoulder and smiled, glancing over at Arathorn before rejoining his wife as she gathered up their simple possessions.

Legolas watched him depart, and having only comprehended the negation, applied it to his own request, and sighed heavily. Berkeley would not lead them afterall.

The immortal monitored all the activity around him, seeing that the humans were preparing to leave. He struggled to stand up, thinking this was the time for him to go, and it cost him in anguish as he vainly attempted to keep all pressure off the sore, abused muscles in his side and leg. He bit down hard on his lower lip and silenced the cry he wanted to release, but could do nothing about the rasping breaths that gave away his distress.

Arathorn stopped what he was doing and reached for him at once, surprised to see him try to rise with such wounds still unhealed.

"No, Legolas," he said gently and seated the Elf back down on the fallen log near the fire ring. "Do not try to walk around; we can take care of things on our own."

Legolas stared up at him, not sure what it all meant, and the Ranger sighed to see the question in the blue eyes regarding him.

"Bedin bar si, erui, Arathorn?" the Elf said, and even though he had no idea what that meant the man grinned warmly to hear his name trilled in the soft Sindarin accent. But Legolas was waiting expectantly for some sort of response, and the Ranger crinkled his brows up in dismay. Perhaps this was not going to be so simple after all.

"You stay there, Legolas! Do not get up!" he said and placed a careful hand on the youth's shoulder, pressing down just enough to get the idea across. Legolas nodded understanding and smiled, but it was not the bright and gleaming beam of glory his eyes had emitted prior to Dacre's outburst. The Elf seemed worried. His eyes strayed often to the unpleasant man and his brother as they went about their work.

Alberic came back to Legolas presently, having resituated the supplies on the donkeys, and offered him a slice of waybread and more water. The Elf's face lit up at the sight of the morsel and he uttered hasty thanks before wolfing it down in four quick bites. He again drank as though he had not seen water for days, and while the Ranger was pleased to see his young guest's appetite, he was concerned about how long the child had been out in the wilderness to be so famished and parched. He very much wanted to know what had happened to the young one and what similar troubles they might encounter.

"Legolas, can you tell me why you are all alone out here?" he said. The inquisitive expression this generated revealed that, besides his own name, none of those words held any meaning for the Elf. Alberic pointed at the bandaged area of the child's body and lifted up his eyebrows.

Legolas face clouded over and his emotive eyes darkened with deep hatred that shone all the more for the tears filling them. The child's mouth set in a tight grim frown and he wrapped his arms protectively around himself.

"Yrch!" he hissed, getting the word out of his mouth as though just to speak it left a foul and bitter taste behind. For extra emphasis, Legolas turned aside and spat, returning Alberic's gaze with fear and rage in his own.

At this point Arathorn joined them and Alberic explained he had tried to learn the child's circumstances, to which the Ranger just shook his head.

"It matters not. We will just have to be careful, for he cannot explain where the attack occurred, or even when, or what direction he has travelled from. I know not how to return him to his people, and cannot bear to leave him alone. He comes with us and we can but hope the Wood Elves have ways of tracking him that will lead them hence," he said.

"Yrch!" the child said again, trying to get their attention and succeeded. "Leben oer io, teraid nîn ar im farol vi taur. Yrch toll an estolad. Ti nant baug ar coru ar rem! Maethennem beren ar breg. Pân dant. Erui, cuinon. Ti aphadatha nin, ti telitha si!"

From the seriousness of the elfling's tone and manner, the Rangers knew he was recounting what had happened, but could make no sense of any of the words other than 'Orcs'. Arathorn shook his head and smiled down at the frustrated expression on the young one's face, kneeling down to be at eye level with the fair youth. Arathorn pointed at the Elf and then swept his arm out wide to indicate the gathered company around them.

"Legolas, you will join us," he said and repeated the motions, adding a beckoning gesture between himself and the child at the end.

Legolas looked from the Ranger before him to each of the expectant faces trained in his direction, and found all but one filled with hopeful longing. The Elf smiled as his eyes returned to Arathorn, nodding his head and again attempting to rise. This was prevented by Alberic laying his huge heavy hand on the slim young shoulder. Legolas looked up to find the gruff Ranger calmly shaking his head.

A brash boyish grin on his lips, the man leaned down and scooped the youngster up, careful of his injuries, to seat him on his shoulder. and Legolas gasped and then laughed, clutching two handfuls of the human's thick brown hair to steady himself in his new perch.

With easy agility the Elf swung a leg over Alberic's head and draped it over the other shoulder so that he was securely settled, crossing his ankles in front of the man's chest as the Ranger's hands steadied his knees. Legolas bent over and peered into Alberic's upside down countenance and laughed again, patting the crown of his head.

"Bedo, Alberic, roch tad-dal nîn!" he said with high amusement and pointed out toward the road.

Everyone laughed, for his meaning was clear, and Arathorn rose from the ground.

"Alright, let us be on our way, then!" he said and led the group onto the road.

continued


	3. Chapter 3

### A Little Legolas Story

###     **by erobey    Beta'd by Sarah AK - _italics=thoughts_**

# Part Three: Erin Othrad Ab    [On the Road Again]

  
It was a merrier company of travellers that graced the hard-packed earthen road than had treaded its humble surface for many a long century. Arathorn strode at the head of the procession, with the two brothers behind, then Esmond and Iomhar with the burrows, Berkeley and Hanna were next, followed by Gilraen and her family, and Alberic with the golden child on his shoulders brought up the rear guard.

It took mere minutes for the little girl-child to demand her father accord her the same perspective the young Elf enjoyed, and soon the two of them were chatting away to one another. Of course, mostly Gilraen did the talking, but now and then the clear ringing tones of the Elf's Sindarin words broke through, and lifted all their hearts even higher. And so the morning passed into afternoon amid cheery comfort and companionship.

For all that is but Dacre. The grieving man sent fury laced glares and scathing stares toward the Elf child every time the immortal uttered a sound. The man muttered to his brother under his breath, and the rattled sibling could be heard attempting to placate and soothe Dacre on these occasions. He tried to keep the distraught man from coming into contact with the Elf, but eventually Dacre pulled his arm free from his brother's hold and fell back to be near Alberic and his immortal cargo.

Gilraen's father made a hasty excursion to the front of the line, pulling his wife in tow, much to his daughter's dismay. He did not want the girl to witness any of the angry man's words or the Ranger's reactions to them. What the Elf might do, he had no clue and was more than a bit superstitious. He feared Dacre was endangering them all by tempting the creature to use magic and spells.

Alberic, watching him move closer, frowned at Dacre accusingly as he felt the Elf on his shoulders tighten his grip in his hair.

"What do you want, Dacre?" the Ranger asked warily, and reached up to reassuringly squeeze Legolas' calf, now so tense.

"I want to know what we have to expect from that creature! How do you plan to handle the older ones when they come upon us? None of them can speak our language, how will you explain that we are helping that whelp rather than absconding with it?" he demanded, pointing at Legolas and flashing him a searingly hateful look.

"The Wood Elves will do nothing to us! It is clear the child is not our prisoner; what makes you say such ridiculous things?" Alberic replied.

"Ridiculous? They are not like us, you fool! What is obvious to you will be seen differently by them. They think of us as animals, looking down on us and flaunting their undying youth. They hide away in their protected little world while the evils they have unleashed roam the country and destroy what is good and right!" the man fumed, his voice rising. Everyone halted and stared at him.

"Dacre!" the strident shout came from Berkeley, but the younger man ignored him. His brother made his way back to the end of the caravan and grabbed Dacre's arm again, pulling ungently in hopes of shaking some sense into him. Dacre yanked himself free and shoved his sibling away.

"No! I will not be silent! Why are you all trying to protect it? Can you not see how we will attract evil by keeping it with us?" he shrilled, pointing again at the Elf.

"Stop!" Arathorn commanded as he strode purposefully toward the irate traveller. He did not want this man to make trouble. He had never encountered Wood Elves before, and did not want the first time to result in making enemies of the immortal folk of the forest. He would need to use this trail again, while Dacre would be safe and snug in Dale. He placed himself between Alberic and Dacre and faced the belligerent man.

"You will listen to me, Dacre," he said and dropped his voice to a low murmur so the girl in the front would not hear. "Legolas is not to be harassed by you! He is a child, and he has endured a horrible catastrophe. He has probably watched his loved ones die, much the same as your goodwife did. It was Orcs that wounded him, and from the looks of things he was in the process of being eaten alive when he escaped. Cease your ranting and let the child alone!"

Dacre's face purpled in indignation and outrage. Had he not hired these men to guide them? How was it this scruffy underling now presumed to give such orders to him?

A quick shifting among the order of the company, however, left no doubt as to the loyalty of the Rangers to their colleague, and agreement with his reasoning. They flanked Arathorn and Alberic and Esmond reached up to console the worried Elf, patting his knee for comfort. Dacre knew he could not overcome such resistance and skulked back to the front of the line, scowling deeply at each of his companions as he passed them.

Legolas exhaled a shaky breath; relieved the man was gone away from him. He looked at Esmond and smiled, and the man took the hand the child placed over his in a firm grasp.

"Worry not, little one, I will not let him harm you," he said.

"Aye, as long as you are perched up there, no one will accost you!" added Alberic and looked up at him with an encouraging grin.

Legolas understood their intent and sighed, relaxing as he nodded to them. The Rangers resumed their former ranks and the travellers set forth again, and all were silent for some time, for Dacre had set everyone on edge with his bitterness.

"Alberic, man adel hen rûth Dacre gâr?" asked Legolas softly, so that only his bearer would hear the words. The Ranger craned his neck to look up into the anxious blue depths, uncertain of the words but not of the fears behind them.

"It is nothing, little one, do not fret over it! He has demons of his own and cannot find peace, so he must seek a place to focus his pain. He does not realise his error." Alberic answered in reassuring tones and smiled to convey his meaning even more. He tried hard to hide his anger toward the man for upsetting the immortal child.

Legolas listened to this speech, and elven hearing being more acute than humans', he discerned the covered wrath sequestered in the jovial sounds and his worries grew greater. He did not know how he had caused Dacre's ire, but was certain he was the centre of it. He looked ahead to Arathorn, but the man was far in front moving determinedly forward and did not glance in his direction.

The child sighed and let his gaze shift to the angry man, who chose that moment to turn and glare furiously back at him. Legolas cringed and averted his eyes. That made the man sneer, but Alberic patted the child's leg and spoke something calmly to him.

Still, Legolas' heart was heavy and the Ranger's efforts to reassure him failed. The Elf had to find a way to rid himself of the gloom engulfing him, threatening to make him remember things he could not bear to think of and sights he would never be able to forget. He took a deep breath and began to sing, and all the noises of the woods hushed so that nature could hear the music of his fair voice filling the space between the earth and the heavens, briefly uniting Arda and Aman through his clear youthful soprano.

The dulcet vocalisation mesmerised the humans and they stood motionless on the path, staring in rapt attention at this seraphic creature uttering such serene sounds. None of the words could they decipher yet they could not help but be swept into the emotive force of the young one's experience as he sang to release the fear and grief, the pain and sorrow, the loneliness and despair bottled up in his small body. It was as though the song itself was a tangible part of him, reaching out to encompass every aspect of nature within the range of the rippling energy pouring forth. The trees joined him, birds added counterpoint, and Manwë sighed his approval in the breeze.

The travellers found themselves moved beyond the ability to respond coherently, simply feeling in every nerve and atom of their bodies and souls, their individual identities dissolving into the consciousness of the young Elf. They knew his sorrow and wept unashamedly, world weary Rangers, tired out elders, harried spouses, and embittered brothers; all found an overawing well of catharsis generated by the singing.

When the anthem ended, the mortals found they were simultaneously exhausted and relieved, weary beyond any former experience in comparison yet peaceful in their minds. Even little Gilraen's energetic exuberance was subdued and quieted in the completion of the Elf's lament. All the humans' faces held softly shaped glimpses of smiles, not quite able to express the slowly expanding joy that began to fill them in the space left behind by the expulsion of their woeful worries.

With singular accord the group strolled off the road into a small wayside glen, one of many lining either side of the pathway in the fringe of the forest, created to provide safe rest during the reign of Ithil. All found places to ease their frames down onto the ground amid sober sighs and creaking joints, each quietly resting in the aftermath of the emotional draining.

Alberic carefully helped Legolas descend, noting how the child sucked in an unsteady breath and held it against the pain still plaguing him. He watched the Elf sit by the trunk of an oak and lean his back against it, stretching his legs before him and tucking his arms protectively round his bandaged side.

Arathorn approached, waterskin in one hand and tossing a bright yellow ball-shaped fruit up into the air with the other until he was right in front of Legolas and had his attention, and then he let the ripe succulent citrus sail towards the child, who grinned as he snatched it from the air. Arathorn and Alberic laughed and both knelt next to their young friend as he sniffed the fruit curiously and tentatively touched the tip of his tongue to its bumpy, leathery rind. Such did not grow in the cooler temperatures of the northern forest. Arathorn held out the water skin and then gestured for the fruit, which the elfling reluctantly relinquished, his face an example of politely restrained if poorly concealed disappointment.

"Let me show you how to get at it, young one," the Ranger said and stabbed the nail of his thumb into the stem-scarred end, releasing a fine spray of misty juice as he peeled away a bit of the skin. Legolas' eyes widened with amazement and he deeply inhaled to savour the sweetly acidic aroma, smiling with hopeful features at his benefactors. "Aye, it is for you, but let me have a look at those wounds first," Arathorn said, passing the orange to his comrade and gently reaching for the fabric of the oversized shirt, tugging carefully.

"Ai! Nestai hery nîn; avo prestad nin!" the Elf complained to no avail as the man undid the buttons and began cautiously unwrapping the bandages to check on the nasty gouges.

When all the linen was peeled away the man sat back and gave a small exclamation of wonder, for the horrendous rips were nearly resealed with new pink skin. Arathorn and Alberic exchanged astonished looks and then transferred this bewilderment to the child, who gave each a quizzical glance before returning his scrutiny to the juicy globe in Alberic's palm.

"Now how can this be possible?" wondered Arathorn aloud.

"It still pains him, for he felt discomfort when I helped him down," commented Alberic as he shook his head.

Carefully Arathorn prodded the wounds and Legolas caught his breath and flinched under the touch, but did not cry out. He looked up pleadingly but said nothing, and Arathorn could not face those imploring eyes without a strong sense of remorse for having caused the little one even a small amount of suffering. He was perplexed, though, and felt it would be wrong to just ignore the injuries without understanding what was going on.

"I am sorry, Legolas, but I must see that all is as it should be. It would not do to have those great tears reopen, or for them to be growing poisonous underneath that new-healed skin!" he said apologetically and laid a hand on the Elf's shoulder, pulling gently to let him know he needed to lie back flat upon the ground.

Legolas scowled foully at this unpleasant manipulation and squirmed a little before relenting with a colossal sigh and a glowering look at his friend as he assumed a prone position and waited for the poking and pestering to end. He winced as the man rubbed a bit too hard against a rib and then the human understood.

"There now! Apologies, Legolas; that rib is snapped and I missed it last night, so bad did the gashes look! No wonder it hurts; the bone must take longer to knit than sinew does!" Arathorn was pleased to have the mystery partially clarified; though the rapidity of the mending was beyond his comprehension. He smiled and elicited a feebly reciprocative expression from the Elf child.

The Ranger was more careful in binding up the injuries again, stabilising the fracture, and then closed up the buttons and helped Legolas sit up. A rapid inspection of the leg wounds revealed them similarly improved and Arathorn did not re-bandage them, thinking the fresh air was a good influence on healing.

"Hannad nîn ab, Arathorn. Boe amin mabed," the pleasing voice cajoled as the Elf's eyes switched from the Ranger's face to the yellow fruit in Alberic's hands and back.

"Aye, you shall have it soon! Let me see that arm now," the Ranger said and reached for the splinted limb. Cautiously he unwrapped the injury and stared in wonder. The dark purple swelling was gone, the bite marks all but vanished, and he flexed the elbow experimentally.

Legolas frowned a little but wiggled his fingers smoothly and then turned a beaming smile of gratitude to his friend. "Aragorn, rancen nestant!" he said and moved the joint again to demonstrate his words. Truly, this was most important, for if it came to battle he would need the use of both his arms. He had already offered numerous prayers of thanks to Yavanna for the broken arm being the right rather than the left, which was his bow arm. "Hannad, hannad!" he effusively and impatiently exclaimed, pointing now at the fruit with uplifted brows and begging eyes.

The men laughed appreciatively and Alberic gladly handed over the child's reward for enduring the examination so bravely. They watched as the Elf again gobbled his food, devouring every last bit of the tangy citrus and licking all the sticky essence from his fingers and the peel greedily. That done he stood carefully and stretched his arms up speculatively with an upward glance into the oak. He rejected the idea as his side protested. With a frown he shifted his feet a bit and glanced over at the Rangers then out into the trees.

"Yrch aphadatha men! Boe ammen baded am ned 'elaith!" he said and anxiously looked from one to the other to see if they understood. It was clear they did not, though the mention of orcs made their faces sombre. Legolas pointed up into the branches and repeated the words, to no better result. Their confused expressions disheartened him and he lowered his head in defeat. Legolas dejectedly settled back down against the tree fully determined to stay alert in order to warn of the monsters' approach. With legs crossed under him, he yawned hugely, rested his head on the gnarled bark, and stared off across the clearing into the trees on the other side.

The humans followed his glance, saw nothing of note, but were distracted from inquiring about it when Dacre got up and began walking toward them. The Rangers rose in concert and moved quickly to intercept him, barring his way, coldly staring down upon the unpleasant widower.

"Peace!" the man said and held his hands up in supplication. "I want to make amends to the child! I was wrong, for that is no harbinger of evil; he is an angel singing of my sweet wife's beauty and love, which I had forgotten in my grief."

The Rangers exchanged glances.

"I heard him singing, yet it seemed to my ears to be the sounds of my childhood home; my village was burned in an goblin raid. I wondered how he could know of these things," said Alberic.

"And I had memories of my father and brother. I have yearned for the joy we shared, for both these were lost to me to the same foe!" exclaimed Arathorn.

The three men turned to look at the child, who had not moved and was staring in rapt contemplation into the distance with a gaze of inward searching. He seemed to be completely oblivious to them.

"I think we should just let the child be," said Alberic. "Gods! I am weary to the core!"

"As are we all. It is his doing," said Dacre, but his tone was only mildly fearful rather than caustically furious. "What say you, Arathorn? Shall we camp here the night, though it is but mid afternoon? We could all use a good long sleep before pressing on, and the women folk are already abed."

Arathorn nodded slowly, noting that not only the females but everyone else was listlessly stretched out on blankets scattered through the clearing. Only the three of them and Iomhar were still alert, and Dacre suddenly yawned behind his fist. He smiled and shrugged, turning to join his brother on the soft leafy forest floor.

"Right then, I guess it is up to us to see to the comforts of the camp before dark!" grumbled Iomhar. He stalked off to gather up some dead wood for a fire; determined to have no more of the sappy, smoking excuse for warmth they had suffered the previous evening.

Alberic saw to the pack animals, which were also pleased with the extra break, and Arathorn patrolled around the perimeter of their spot to make sure there were no signs of any of the more unpleasant inhabitants of the forest near by. By default, the three wakeful but weary Rangers stood guard in turns, with Arathorn forced by the other two to have his rest first, for no sleep had he taken the previous night.

The Ranger set up his bedroll near the Elf, concerned that he had neither stirred nor watched their activities for some minutes. He felt the child was in some kind of trance and did not wish to disturb him. Legolas' unseeing stare was eerie and unsettling, and despite the child's beauty Arathorn found him hard to look upon in that state. He rolled to his side facing away from the blank, empty eyes and shivered under his blankets.

continued  


 

 


	4. Part Four: Fuin Gar Hin Venig (The Night has a Thousand Eyes)

### A Little Legolas Story

    **by erobey    Beta'd by Sarah AK - _italics=thoughts_**

 

 

 

## Part Four: Fuin Gar Hin Venig (The Night has a Thousand Eyes)

 

 

  
_**Warning: There is a rather gruesome battle scene at the end, very violent behaviour described.** _

Like the soft rich caress of damasked silk the formless curtain of Ithil's atramentous garments enveloped the forest and the roadside glen where the travellers reposed. The darkened firmament descended to earth and the woods seemed more a part of the tapestry of night and its adamantine embroidery than of ground and stream and sunlit wind. Somehow the trees did not shy from the breathless, close embrace of empty welkin, welcoming the sombre stillness, the subdued sonance, the sedate, ambling pace of the twilight time.

Banished was the tension and dread of the previous evening's allotted span of hours, for the sweet remnants of the immortal's soul-song lingered among the limbs and leaves, held bound as the weald refused to relinquish the gentle peace granted by the Elf child's lament. The flora and fauna of the diurnal interval in Arda's unceasing cycle slept in dreamless and contented slumber; while their nocturnal counterparts slipped through the adumbral landscape with reverent respect for the music's memory.

The watches languidly passed in long lazy tracts, unwilling to hurry the departure of the serenity savoured by all of nature. Scattered around the cheery winking flames of the camp's fumeless fire, the travellers rested better than on any of the previous nights since their embarkation upon the Forest Road. Yet among them the lone guard kept vigil with heightened awareness.

Restless and alert best described Iomhar's attitude as the night hours wore on. He wanted more than anything to sleep, but could not allow himself the luxury for fear of leaving the company at risk, and if he could not doze he needed companionship to ward off the weariness. He paced the perimeter of their clearing, passing by Legolas seated against the tree, still staring wide eyed into the darkness, and stopping, turned back to look at him.

Something about that expression was just not right and while the child's song had left him peacefully contented, this vacant gaze left his skin writhing in aversion. Iomhar followed the direction in which the Elf's features faced, but found only trees and black air there. The Ranger returned his attention to the immortal and shuddered just the smallest amount as he cautiously approached.

He knelt next to Legolas but still the Elf took no notice of his presence. Iomhar extended his hand, gently grasping the shoulder and shaking him to get his attention. The response was unexpected and the Ranger, caught off his guard, shouted anxiously as the child grasped the hand upon him with a steely grip far stronger than his stature and appearance would suggest possible.

Legolas wrenched the limb in a twisting motion as he rose and moved behind the man, and the pain inflicted by the torsional force made Iomhar cry out in surprise and discomfort. Before the Ranger quite knew what was happening, he felt the cold sharp pressure of a blade at his throat, and he became utterly immobile. He could feel Legolas' panting breath upon his neck.

"What is this?" the words were from Arathorn, for his comrade's surprised shout had roused him immediately and he leaped from his bedding, halting in confusion at the scene before him.

The Elf looked up at him, returned his gaze to his prisoner and gasped. At once he released the man's arm and the knife vanished back into whatever hidden place he stowed it. He began speaking in rapid fluidity and there was a pleading sound to his words as he moved to face Iomhar and knelt on the ground in front of him.

"Goheno nin, saes! Goheno nin! Avon harno le! Nauthannen Yrch tellin! Olthannen uin Yrch! Goheno nin!" His distress and fear evident in his voice, Legolas repeated these phrases over and over.

"I do not know, Arathorn." Iomhar rubbed his throat as he gazed at his comrade. "I must have startled him; he took me by surprise!" the man was embarrassed to have been bested by a child. "Hush, lad! No need for all this!" he cautioned for the child was now shaking with dread.

"Legolas?" Arathorn squatted beside them calmly and tentatively reached for the Elf's hands, clasping them within his own. "All is well; there is nothing to fear. Iomhar will not hurt you, alright?" The man tried to make his words sound comforting, and the immortal child transferred wide eyes to his then darted a glance back at Iomhar. The flustered bowman smiled awkwardly and reached out to gently pat the Elf's shoulder.

Legolas stiffened as the initial contact was made and then relaxed when it was obvious he was not going to be punished for his terrible indiscretion. He smiled wanly at Iomhar.

"Aye, no harm done! I should not have frightened you so," the man said in good spirits, for he was upset that the child truly thought he would strike him. The Ranger felt guilty for having startled the elfling; his was an instinctive reaction and one the man should have expected given the horrors Legolas had endured.

"Is everything alright over there?" Alberic called from his mat, alert but not alarmed for Arathorn had given no signal to attack.

"Yes, nothing amiss; the child was only startled for a moment. All is well!" Iomhar replied quickly.

Alberic grunted his frustration at having been roused without reason and snuggled back deeply into his blankets, asleep nearly at once.

"If you tell anyone about this," Iomhar met Arathorn's eyes atop the golden-haired head. "I will reveal the tale of the first time we came through here and you bathed in the Enchanted River!" His voice was less than a murmuring sigh.

"Why, Iomhar, I am shocked that you think I would make jokes at your expense! I would never call attention to the fact that a mere babe held you captive at knife point, though you ridiculed my keen senses when I warned about our guest here," Arathorn quietly rejoined with mock innocence as he chuckled.

"Babe! You did not feel the iron grip with which he jerked my arm! And he moved with a speed my eyes could not follow. Truly he must be using some magic or sorcery. How else could a child escape from Orcs?" Iomhar resorted to superstition and exaggeration to account for his humiliation.

Both men looked into Legolas' concerned eyes, for he had been silently trying to follow their conversation, listening to know if they really would let this pass. When the Rangers turned their scrutiny upon him he shifted about a little and blushed faintly. Abruptly he jumped up and darted out of the clearing before either man could blink, and for a second or two they just sat staring dumbly at the spot where he had been kneeling.

"Legolas! Wait, there is no need to run; we are not angry with you!" Arathorn recovered first and was on his feet, chasing after the child.

Iomhar rose and came after, nearly colliding with Arathorn just beyond the boundary of the firelight. They stared in apprehensive astonishment at the immortal. The Elf's fair features were cast in starlit shades, his form outlined in an eerie glow against the pitch background of the forest night. The men feared to approach, for they had not beheld such fey luminance before. The enchantment was dispersed by the unmistakable sound of the youth relieving his bladder. Each man exhaled when the noise registered coherently and they waited a polite distance away until Legolas finished and returned to them.

He had restrained his body's demands as long as he could for he knew the Orcs would be searching for his scent now that he had stopped bleeding. Also, he had given in to his sorrow and sung for his fallen friends, and surely the foul demons had heard him. Legolas was very distraught with himself for unwittingly attracting harm to his benefactors and longed for a means to get them all safely back to his city.

As fate would have it, the group was moving towards the location of the attack. Legolas could sense the beasts' nearness and remained tense and watchful. Every instinct cautioned him to take to the trees and flee, but he did not want to leave the humans, and in truth he was afraid to face the Orcs alone. The Rangers, he reasoned, had weapons and had faced the fearsome creatures before. He glanced longingly at Iomhar's bow and quiver; his own had been taken from him and destroyed. With sudden inspiration he turned to the archer.

"Iomhar, anna enni cu lin? Bedin am ned 'elaith ar maethon Yrch ned ennas. Saes?" He spoke in coaxing tones and pointed at the fine weapon the Ranger carried strapped to his back.

The Ranger exchanged astonished looks with Arathorn. "He seems to be asking something about my bow, Arathorn," Iomhar said.

"Aye, perhaps you should give the warrior child your weapon; no doubt he would be able to wield it with elven magic and every dart would find its way into our enemies' hearts!" the Ranger could not resist the small gibe.

"Nay, Legolas," Iomhar replied, ignoring his friend's snide remark. "You are not tall enough to draw a bow this long! Worry not; I will protect us should the need arise."

Legolas stared with hopeful eyes a moment and then his brow wrinkled and he gave a muttered remark that was highly reminiscent of a curse in tone and force. Without another look at them he made his way back to the tree where he had reposed earlier and with the agility only a Wood Elf could demonstrate leaped with consummate grace and ease up into the branches.

The humans stood looking after him and then Iomhar shrugged apologetically as he moved to lay out his bedding. Now that Arathorn was awake, he saw no reason to refrain from his own rest. Finding a clear spot not too far from the fire, he set aside his weapons and nestled into the inviting warmth of his wool blanket. The archer was soon plunged into his long awaited repose.

Arathorn moved to stand under the tree where Legolas was perched and stared up into the high slender branches where he knew the Elf child would be hiding. Sure enough, the bright gleam of those unearthly eyes aimed in his direction for a moment and then turned away. {Or perhaps he sleeps.}, the Ranger thought and decided not to attempt any conversation with the skittish youth. He did not want to repeat Iomhar's error. He made a thorough patrol of the area encircling the camp and then, having found nothing of importance, returned to the fireside to enjoy its radiating comfort. As was his habit, he took out his dagger and scraped it with monotonous concentration against the whetstone.

Yet the comfort he usually derived from this activity failed to find him, and as the hour wore on the Ranger became vaguely concerned and agitated. Something was wrong, and he could not tell what it was. A tension of nervous energy was building among the trees, he felt, and the Ranger knew better than to disregard such instinctive sensations. He got up and began quietly rousing his fellows, leaving the travellers asleep for the time.

None of the Rangers troubled to ask what was wrong; long experience had taught them that Arathorn's visceral reactions were seldom erroneous. All moved to ready themselves and took up defensive positions encircling the little clearing, and it was then that Iomhar missed his bow. He swore a foul epithet as he fumbled about, striving to see if he had inadvertently kicked it beyond the firelight, though never had he done such a thing in all his long years as an archer. There was only one conclusion, and the thought angered and perplexed him.

"Arathorn! We have a thief among us, and I think you know who I mean!" he whispered harshly, for they all knew not to alarm the travellers with their worries. "Call to Legolas and make him return my bow and quiver. This is no child's game!"

Arathorn frowned, disappointed, for he would not have thought that the Elf child would be capable of such deceit. The Ranger stood beneath the tree.

"Legolas! Come down now and bring back Iomhar's bow," he called softly with hurried insistence colouring his speech. The glint of elven eyes flashed briefly in his direction.

"Nay, Arathorn!" the Elf trilled back, for he had observed Iomhar's search for the weapon and had no doubt about the man's demand. He did not wait for any further words to wend their way through the leaves toward him, though, and silently glided through the branches until he was far into the dense forest too distant from the camp to see more than the faint glow of the campfire. He chose a likely spot, high enough in the canopy to ensure invisibility until he chose to be discovered, yet not so great a height that his aim would suffer.

Once settled he inspected the bow and tested its draw. The graceful weapon was indeed nearly as tall as he and Legolas had to move to a spot with greater clearance beneath the low limbs to keep it from entangling in the tree. Satisfied, he adjusted the quiver, loosely slung across his small frame, and drew from it an arrow, setting it to the string to be ready.

Legolas knew they were coming, for his keen ears had picked up the Orcs' movements at last. The creatures thought they were being quiet, and in truth they were, yet the immortal could discern them easily. It was the same group that had attacked his camp before, his sense of smell told him so, and he was determined to prevent the humans from making the mistake his comrades had made that night. For these Orcs had set a clever trap, knowing the adults would try to get him out of harm's way, and had driven the First Born into an unexpected ambush.

While three of the five Elves had remained to face the attack, comprised of twelve of the vile mutations, Legolas and the remaining two adults had mounted their horses and ridden for home. By the time they realised that the frontal assault was but a feint, the main force of the loathsome troop overwhelmed them, killing the horses out from under them and surrounding the three lone fighters. The Orcs outnumbered them nearly eight to one, yet even so it had taken some time for the beasts to prevail, and not without the loss of many of their comrades and their youngest prey. With his last breath and strength, one of the two Elves had snatched the elfling literally out of the teeth of death and tossed him into the branches, his final word a command to fly.

Legolas had obeyed, racing through the branches with speed born of his terror, knowing he would never see either of his friends again.

He watched now as the shadows came to life, creeping along in a hunched over nearly crawling stance as the Orcs advanced upon the little clearing. Involuntarily he shuddered and had to wilfully squelch his desire to run. He counted twenty; these he knew were all that remained of them after the attack on his camp. He held himself rigidly still and allowed them to approach closer. Timing was paramount; if he was revealed too soon the ploy would fail; too late and the humans would be killed.

The skulking demons were flowing like a fog of black and pestilent smoke, shrouding the base of his tree, moving outward in a widening fan as they sought to surround the clearing revealed by the glow of the campfire.

Legolas deemed the moment opportune and loosed his first arrow.

In the silence of the quiescent woods the sound of the bowstring seemed deafeningly loud and was followed by the surprised grunt of an Orc as the Elf child's dart sliced into the foul demon's heart. The entire troop halted in confusion as another, and then another of their colleagues fell, pierced by the immortal's unerring aim. They turned in rage upon the vicinity of the attack and bellowed to one another in their horrid speech as they blindly fired black fletched arrows into the air.

Legolas shifted quickly and silently through the branches so that when the darts were near to his initial spot, he was safely perched in another. With concentrated effort he began again and four more of the beasts dropped to the ground with Iomhar's white feathered arrows embedded in their chests.

Thirteen remained.

In the clearing, Arathorn's Rangers easily detected the guttural shouts that passed for language among the spawn of Melkor, and quickly arranged their defence. Iomhar, now armed with a cumbersome sword he had found in Dacre's baggage, Esmond, and Baldwin would remain behind to protect the travellers. Arathorn and Alberic slithered silently out of the glade toward the sounds of the skirmish.

Legolas continued his shoot and run strategy, firing off two more bolts before moving on, but the Orcs began to understand his technique. Some held back and waited as two of their fellows died, then let loose a barrage of missiles in the direction from which the deadly strike was made. Already climbing up and out of the tree, the Elf child narrowly escaped injury and a fresh surge of adrenaline pulsed through him as an Orc's arrow embedded in the trunk just below his feet.

Only eleven still breathed, and Legolas was determined that before dawn not one would live to return to its filthy cave. He heard the humans shout and leap into the fray, and all at once he was not the principal target anymore.

Now the vicious beasts were split, fighting on two fronts as the Rangers vigorously slashed and hacked their way through the unprepared Orcs. A massive roar erupted as they realised the little elfling had tricked them well, allowing these fearsome and fierce battlers to encroach too closely to employ their bows. The beasts had thought to sneak up and cut down their quarry from beyond the reach of the firelight, safe within the distance provided by their arrows' flights. They were still encumbered with the long-range weapons, not expecting to have to engage in hand-to-hand battle. Now beset from above as the Elf flitted from tree to tree and rained death upon them and from the rear by the wily human warriors, the grotesque soldiers hovered on the fringes of desperate panic.

In a trice, two more were slain and each of the men had another engaged, as three more of Iomhar's arrows found their targets. The remaining pair fled, heading in a mad rush for the camp.

Legolas saw this and immediately pursued them, dropping the long bow as he ran through the limbs. Just as the demons broke through the cover of the trees, Iomhar charged and fought with one. The Ranger was proficiently dangerous and it was clear his opponent would not survive the match. The last Orc saw the error of their wild retreat and turned to escape only to meet the lithe form of the Elf child blocking his path, dagger in hand, staring up in unmasked hatred upon the loathsome beast.

Baldwin and Esmond hurriedly herded their charges to the far side of the camp, for by now all were awake and wide-eyed with terror and dread. Gilraen and her mother were both screaming shrilly and the distraught father kept trying to silence them, as though that would cause the situation to right itself. Hannah fell to her knees and covered her eyes, whispering her prayers and chants. Dacre was avidly trying to get free of his brother and Berkeley's grasp so that he could take vengeance upon these vile monsters for his wife's murder.

The Orc laughed at the challenge of the immortal child and growled some taunting phrase in its barbaric tongue, fingering with its long-clawed hands a sort of talisman about its neck. It unsheathed its cruelly curved, imbrued sword.

"Elendil!" Esmond shouted and sprang away from the knot of humans, sword drawn and already lifted above his head for a fatal slice through the demon's neck. The Orc wheeled to face the threat but the two combatants' blades never rang steel.

A wild incoherent shriek escaped Legolas' throat as he darted between them and launched himself upon his foe, attacking with a frenzy of fearsome viciousness and speed unmatched. Before the Orc could lift its scimitar, the Elf's dagger had penetrated its black heart twice and still Legolas slashed and stabbed as the beast crumpled down in a gurgling flailing heap.

Esmond halted and watched the flash of surprise that spent a brief moment upon the creature's hideous features as its life drained away.

Legolas was unsatisfied and the quick demise of his enemy appeared to enrage him even more. He was screaming in elvish, damning the vile thing, calling words for the Orc's twisted soul to carry back to its Master in Mordor. The black flow of blood had not even begun to slow before Legolas dropped his dagger and took up the Orc's own scimitar. With two vigorously brutal blows he sundered the ugly head from the oozing body. The Elf continued the dismemberment, uncaring that fluids and particles of flesh sprayed up upon him with every stroke of the blade, unmindful of the shocked observation of the humans witnessing this, unresponsive to Iomhar's pleas to stop and come away.

Arathorn and Alberic raced back into the clearing in time to see Legolas yank something from the decapitated remains. With this token in hand, his energy suddenly vanished and he let the sword slip from his hand as he staggered away from the unholy mess on the ground. He sank to the earth and gave way to soul-searing mourning of wails and tears as he clutched the bloodied object close to his chest. He cried out in elvish, but the humans did not understand him, and in truth they feared to approach him, so violent had his attack been.

At last he curled up tight upon the earth and lay sniffling and sobbing more quietly, rocking himself every now and then, seeming more like the child the humans had befriended. Arathorn approached and sat down beside him, gently patting his back.

"It is alright now, Legolas; they are all dead," he said needlessly, since the elfling could not understand anyway, but could not really think of what else to do. He gave his weary voice the most reassuring timbre he could generate and when Legolas stared up at him with such raw anguish and despair the man cringed.

"Nay! Ûvaer! Nae an nyssen! Linnathon naergyn an mellynen an uir bân!" he spoke these tear choked words between his gasping shuddering sighs, and held up for the man's inspection the token he had ripped from his foe's neck.

Arathorn recoiled in disgust and Iomhar gasped. Alberic turned away and clamped a hand over his mouth. Baldwin shifted quickly to screen the sight from the women while Esmond bared his teeth and swore between them.

In his fist Legolas clutched a gruesome necklace consisting of a rough leather thong on which were strung numerous slender, elegant, elven fingers.

Gradually the high emotion ebbed and the tension receded leaving behind the exhausted despair of the immortal child as replacement.

Gilraen and her mother calmed, Hannah struggled to her feet with Berkeley's help, and Dacre stilled and sat with his hands buried in his hair, softly weeping as his brother stood near, a hand upon his shoulder. Baldwin, Esmond and Iomhar dragged the revolting remains of the battle from the camp and Alberic took care to scoop up and throw fresh dirt over the blood-drenched earth.

Legolas sat up and examined the necklace, carefully removing three mithril rings from various digits. Then he pulled off the gore-smeared shirt and carefully wrapped up the awful remains, tying the bundle securely with the sleeves of the garment. He found his dagger and thrust the tainted blade into the earth until the stain was gone and the mithril knife shone bright again. Moving the few weary steps to the tree where he had rested earlier, the child sat against the trunk. Arathorn followed, settling nearby. They shared a long look of sorrow and relief for each other's victory.

The Elf child carefully selected a section of his hair and sliced it free with his dagger. With skilful fingers he began to weave a braided rope, and Arathorn was struck by the paradox of the brutal slaughter wrought just minutes ago by such exquisite hands.

As he worked, Legolas began to sing for his lost friends, and soon everyone in the camp was reduced to mourning and tears. He ended the song as he completed the braid, and slipped this through the rings before tying it off to form a loop. He it pulled over his head to wear round his neck as a testament of remembrance to counter the odious one the Orc captain had flaunted. The elfling sighed heavily as tears slipped silently down his face but he neither sang nor spoke again.

Somehow in all the panic and excitement, Ithil had finished his turn through the heavens and the dusky peach of early sunlight began playing among the leaves. The clear notes of a lark sounded through the clearing and Legolas jumped to his feet. At that same moment, an Elf warrior dropped down from the trees to the right of the clearing and with relief and joy called to him.

"Malthen!" Legolas shouted and raced to leap into the Wood Elf's embrace, burying his face against the strong shoulder as he was lifted up and encircled in a breath-stealing hug.

Malthen sat down on the ground and stood the child before him, carefully examining him from top to toes and frowning at the bandaged wounds. Distraught, the ageless warrior tried to wipe away the tear-streaked grime from the elfling's face. All the while Legolas was pouring out his story in a fluid torrent of lilting Sindarin marred by the terror, anguish and sorrow of the events they described.

Arathorn stood and gazed up into the surrounding trees, for each seemed to hold a grim yet relieved Elf warrior. The rest of the humans drew closer together for they followed the Ranger's line of vision and met the curious scrutiny of the Wood Elves. While the fair folk did not seem angry or unfriendly, there was a palpable flow of energy between and around them and the intensity of their inquisitive stares was unsettling to the overwrought travellers.

Arathorn heard Legolas speak his name and, returning his attention to the two elves in the camp, met the grateful expression of Malthen's countenance as the child continued the tale.

Finally, the grisly end of the narrative was spoken, and Legolas presented both the shrouded remnants of immortal life and the circle of rings. Several of the Elves in the trees exclaimed in anger and muttered together in outrage. The child began crying again and Malthen snatched him close, for he was weeping now as well. The warrior rose with the child in his arms and stepped up to Arathorn.

"I thank you for the aid you have given to Legolas. His mother has been beside herself in dread and fear, and you have in this selfless act earned our eternal friendship. I am Maltahondo of the Woodland Realm, and I will carry word of your kind and brave deeds home to my Queen. All that travel with you have the sanction of the Greenwood," he said in perfect if softly accented Westron, to the amazement of Arathorn and all the mortals alike.

Before the Ranger could even formulate an appropriate reply, Malthen turned and walked out of the clearing. Legolas lifted his head and looked over the warrior's shoulder as they retreated, gazing a moment with a mournful smile at the man.

"Namarië, Arathorn!" the youthful voice rang out clearly through the dawn-lit air, "Galu-en-Tawar am le!" and before the sound had dispersed amid the sighing breeze the Elves were gone.

 

 

**Finished**

****

* * *

******Glossary:** ** **

******Names** : (These are not elvish names! Mostly Old English.)** **

**Alberic = [Elf Power]**  
Iomhar = [Bow Warrior]  
Baldwin = [Bold Friend]  
Esmond = [Graceful Protector]  
Dacre = [Trickling Stream]  
Berkley = [Birch Wood]

******Elvish Phrases:******  (Not an expert, apologies for errors!)

"Saes, nen? Saes!" = "Please, water? Please!"

"Hannad nîn" = "My thanks"

"Geril hannad nîn ar rîn an uir," = "You have my thanks and remembrance for eternity."

"Hammad nîn?" = "My clothing?"

"Man cerithon an hammad?" = "What will I do for clothing?"

"Berkeley! Boe ammen baded sí! Le tegitha men an ost nin? Avradon. Men beriatha uin Yrch ennas!" = We must go now! Will you lead us to my city? I cannot find the way. We will be protected from the Orcs there!"

"Bedin bar si, erui, Arathorn?" = "I will go home now, alone, Arathorn?"

"Bedo, Alberic, roch tad-dal nîn!" = "Go, Alberic, my two-legged horse!"

"Yrch! Leben oer io, teraid nîn ar im farol vi taur. Yrch toll an estolad. Ti baug ar coru ar rem! Maethennem beren ar breg. Pân dant. Erui, cuinon. Ti aphadatha nin, ti telitha si!"

= "Orcs! Five days ago, my guards and I were hunting in the forest. The Orcs came to the camp. They were cruel and cunning and many! We fought bravely and fiercely. All fell. Alone, I live. They will follow me; they will come here!"

"Alberic, man adel hen rûth Dacre gâr?" = Alberic, what is behind this anger Dacre has?

"Ai! Nestai hery nîn; avo prestad nin!" = Ah! My wounds are healing, do not trouble me!

"Hannad nîn ab, Arathorn. Boe amin mabed," = Thank you again, Arathorn. I must eat.

"Aragorn, rancen nestant!" = Arathorn, my arm healed!

"Yrch aphadatha men! Boe ammen baded am ned 'elaith!" = The Orcs will follow us! We must go up in the trees!"

"Goheno nin, saes! Goheno nin! Avon harno le! Nauthannen Yrch tellin! Olthannen uin Yrch! Goheno nin!" = Forgive me, please! Forgive me! I would not harm you! I thought the Orcs had come! I dreamed of the Orcs! Forgive me!

"Iomhar, anna enni cu lin. Ir Yrch telir, bedithon am ned 'elaith ar maethathon hain od ennas. Saes?" = Iomhar, give me your bow. When the Orcs come, I will go up in the trees and fight them from there. Please?

"Nay! Ûvaer! Nae an nyssen! Linnathon naergyn an mellynen an uir bân!" = No! It is not good! Alas for my kin! I will sing laments for my friends for all eternity!

"Namarië, Arathorn. Galu-en-Tawar am le!" = Farewell, Arathorn. The blessings of Tawar upon you!"

 

 


End file.
